41. Did You Understand the Barack Obama Piece?
Barack Obama
It’s very important to the grasp of Powerful Peace that I clear this up. I don’t take any pleasure in one side humiliating the other; quite the opposite. I know being centrist still means being in the minority in the US, but it’s my belief that if I “lean right” or “lean left” according to political inclinations, I’ll put myself in some danger of falling down. In fact, I stand straight up in the middle, and measure each issue on its merit, not basing my opinions on what some affiliation tells me I should think and decide.
Please let me know if you share this vision. Sometimes this position of listening to all sides, and respecting all persons for the inherent value of their point of view, seems pretty lonely.
Article #39 is an observation on the profound nature of the world’s opinion of us, and our opinion of ourselves, as it relates to the election of this unique individual. Please do review it in this context: Barack Obama: 9/12 and 11/5.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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39. Barack Obama – September 12th and November 5th
Days of National Transformation
Wherever you fell on the political spectrum when the final results were in, I would like to point out some details that have not yet been discussed. I would like to address the profound significance of this day, November 5th, 2008.
I’m writing this piece from my station in Iraq. On September 11th, 2001, I was working as a SEAL in another Middle Eastern country with some of my teammates. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, we US SEALs and our class of local national SEALs endured the rare privilege of watching the events of 9/11 unfold live while half a world away.
It was evening, there. One of our number called out to the barracks that a plane had hit a Tower. We Americans and Arabs gathered in the TV lounge and sat silently for three hours as the unimaginable transpired.
The next morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, we cancelled all training and began readying ourselves for the inevitable war to come. I told a friend, “The world will never be the same.”
What I meant by this is that, as with the designations of B.C. and A.D. (or Before Current Era and Current Era, in some calendar systems), history would now be eternally fractured into pre-9/11 and post-9/11. These terms have in fact become part of today’s vernacular. That date can reasonably be likened to a national loss of innocence.
Now consider these facts that burst forth on November 5th, 2008:
The Black segment of the United States has been uplifted in a concrete way which theories and declarations of equality could never fully communicate. This will open the eyes of every citizen that American diversity is real. It is finally true that each child can grow up to become the President of the United States of America.
Barack Obama is not Black
Simultaneously, the nation must realize that Barack Obama is not Black…not Black, that is, unless we are equally willing to label him “White”. After all, what is it that makes him Black? If it’s being born of a Black parent, then is he somehow less White in also being the son of a White parent?
(By the way, this isn’t political bandwagonning. I won’t tell you which way I voted. I’m describing our circumstances objectively.)
President-elect Obama is Black and White. Conveniently, so is America…and we are so much more.
America is also Native American, (which group, by the way, we honor in the month of November), we’re Hispanic, we’re Asian, we’re Polynesian, we’re Mediterranean, and still more. In other words, Barack Obama’s victory is not merely a win for Blacks. As he is the physical embodiment of the racial extremes of America, so his selection is a vote in favor of the entire spectrum of race in America. His victory is a win for Blacks and for Whites. It’s a win for every race between these extremes.
The nation, and the world, must also realize that he is not American…not American, that is, unless we are equally willing to name him a global citizen. If an American mother and a Kenyan father produce a child, does either side have the stronger claim to its native son?
In no way is this an insinuation that Barack Obama is not “American enough” to lead our nation. Rather, it’s an assertion that he is inherently and invaluably aware of the world beyond our borders. Our world is shrinking by the day. Great Walls and Iron Curtains are pitiful artifacts of a sadly frightened past in which nations looked at one another like suspicious townsfolk in a cowboy movie: “You ain’t from around here, is you, stranger?”
While on the subject of “(fill-in-the-blank) enough”, I want to point out that Jesse Jackson once apparently expressed that Barack Obama wasn’t “Black enough” to run and win as the Black candidate for President. Today I was moved to see Jesse Jackson weeping with joy over the election.
I say again: the world will never be the same.
A Change in America means a Change in the World
The United States is the single, most powerful people group on the planet. We have demonstrated the greatest willingness to extend ourselves out into the world to influence change – according to our best judgment. In helpful and not-so-helpful ways, we have proven over and again that we, as one entity, can move the globe.
That globe has in recent decades become less enamored of our ability and decisions to act or not act. Our face is mirrored in worldwide polls; the numbers do not paint a pretty picture.
We are perceived as a self-absorbed superpower. The image is that while our intentions may in fact be good, our values are not always demonstrated by our actions. We can swear to never tolerate genocide, then show that the slaughtering of families in Darfur doesn’t quite meet the threshold for meaningful intervention.
While the tapestry of our nation has been a multi-colored fabric since the first day, our executive has never been. This cannot go unnoticed by global neighbors. The proud label of Melting Pot must have appeared insincere as long as only the white wax floated to the top.
Raise your head high, America. If you voted for Barack Obama or against him, you participated in the selection of this living symbol of the whole greatness that is America. You were a vital part of the struggle that proves to a skeptical world that we love our country; we embrace the democratic process in choosing our leader, together; ultimately, we demonstrated that we treasure this grand, glorious, motley rabble of individuals…more than our individual selves. We truly value the diversity that is America – and the world.
I usually don’t say much to describe myself, beyond my status as a retired SEAL and global security professional. In case you’re interested, I’m White. Or rather, I should say, I’m a White American. Or rather, I should say…I’m a proud American. I’m proud that my country has so powerfully seized its own American-ness.
IF YOU APPRECIATE THESE COMMENTS, PLEASE PASS THIS ARTICLE ALONG TO LOVED ONES
…IF YOU HAPPEN TO KNOW THE OBAMAS, PLEASE DROP THEM A COPY, TOO.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
38. Who Do I Belong To?
Today I present the words of an Iraqi author. This was written originally in Arabic, and is translated in an Iraqi magazine called “Gilgamesh (the Journal of Iraqi Culture)”. It was given to me by my new acquaintance, an Iraqi military general who needs to remain nameless.
Gilgamesh is an English language forum presenting the very human thoughts of Iraqi writers to help our English-speaking audience better understand this ancient, complex, and essential part of the world.
There’s nothing I can say to improve this piece; it is a laser-focused illustration of Powerful Peace in the life of one person.
Please enjoy:
Who Do I Belong To?
by Lamya’ Nu’man al-Dulaimi
Friends and acquaintances often tease and taunt me about the fact that I cannot truly say who I belong to. My identity, though, states my tribal and sectarian descent, which is a complex, heterogenous mix. I became aware of my diversified background early in my life; my family is the product of an intricate ethno-sectarian intermarriage that has been going on from time immemorial. The end result of these mixed marriages has been a tolerant community living in harmony and peace.
So, when I am in Kifri and Toozkhurmato amid my family and relatives I speak Turkomen and enjoy listening to Turkish songs. And when I go to Kirkuk and Suleimaniya I speak Kurdish, enjoy the mountain scenery and revel in seeing Gli Ali Beg and Shaqlawa Falls and the Dokan and Darbendi Khan dams.
In Baghdad, Mahmoodiya and Ramadi I speak with members of my family and relatives residing in these places in Arabic. However, I speak with my in-laws with a southern Iraqi accent which I am fond of as it evokes the kindness and generosity of Meisan, Dhiqar, al-’Ashar, Faw and the Gulf. This remarkable mixture has had a great impact on my mind and thoughts and injected my blood with the genes of this unique combination. I love all the contributors to my being and empathize with all. I don’t have to be biased to any party. I believe I was destined to be the epitome of Iraq’s composition; an amalgam of races, languages, traditions and cultures. Hence, the elements that contribute toward my make-up are the sum of the characteristics of the Kurds, the Turkomens and the Arabs all combined. I inherited a lot of the qualities that all Iraqis share: bravery, kindness, cheerfulness, patience and fortitude.
It is true that I can not define my true identity and origin but deep down I know that my sense of belonging is to the entirety of Iraq from north to south. I adore its mountains, its waterfalls, its Tigris and Euphrates and its Arabian Gulf port. Most important of all, I would not trade a single Iraqi quality for any Arab or international characteristic, whatever the latter’s merits.
In the days when Iraqis were either in prison or were fleeing the tyranny of the former regime, Kurds, Turkomens, Arabs, Sunnis, Shiites, Christians, Yazidis and others shared the same ordeal. They all left the country carrying their love for Iraq wherever they went. Moreover, when they left they had Iraqi passports with them, not Turkomen, Kurdish, Sunni, or Shiite passports. They were all identified by their Iraqi nationality; a passport with the name of Iraq on its cover and pages.
Forgive me, dear family and friends, for rambling on so; my point is that Iraq needs us all whatever our ethnic origin and sect. It does not matter who belongs to what. We all belong to Iraq, and only that should count.
Translated by Dhafer Abed Mutter al-Tamimi
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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34. I Told You So, Habibi
Well, this evening I made a long-term plan. I sat for five hours with my new Baghdadi habibi (dear friend) Haider, and we discussed life from his perspective as a businessman born and raised in Baghdad but unable to live safely here in Iraq, his native land.
These days he’s back as a visitor from his self-imposed exile, but heavily protected by the security of US bases as he manages imports for the Coalition’s needs. One fateful (and fortunate) night’s chase by a gunman through an unfamiliar neighborhood was all it took to convince him that he no longer belongs on the streets of his own cities.
Our evening started out as an interview, but as so often happens with this undisciplined scribe for the species, the “interview” devolved into a very human discussion about life and how it hurts and how we can make it better for everyone.
I’m more of an optimist than Haidar, who hopes for a stable peace (a Powerful Peace) in Iraq but doubts it will happen in his lifetime. I’ve seen so much good in the hearts of humankind. That is the primary focus of my hardcopy column, For Goodness’ Sake, (you’ll find it on page 30 of the PDF in this link).
Goodness. It blows my mind that some struggle to imagine it existing in every culture. Courage and selflessness aren’t unique to the American heartland.
Oskar Schindler was a self-described (at least in the movie) “member of the Nazi party, profiteer of slave labor, and maker of munitions”. Yet the film describing his wartime deeds ranks near or even at the top of the greatest I’ve ever seen.
[If you haven't seen Schindler's List...please, please, please watch it. It will make you a little bit better of a human being.]
This quote is attributed to Schindler, the unlikeliest savior of the Holocaust’s Jews:
“I knew the people who worked for me… When you know people, you have to behave toward them like human beings.”
I mentioned in the beginning that I’d made a long-term plan this evening. I told my less-than-optimistic new friend Haider that I intend to meet him with our families in downtown Baghdad in October of 2028. This time the pizza will be on me.
I want to look him right in the eye and say, “I told you so, habibi.”
We’d better get to work.
By the way, I mentioned that I had sat with Haider to interview him. The intent of this first interview, and with God’s help the hundreds to follow, is to develop a series of Voices From the World. I hope to communicate the truth of Powerful Peace using the words of our global neighbors themselves. Please watch for Haider’s interview in P2, the Blog, coming soon.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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24. What Good Are You?
What positive condition now exists, or will exist, in the world as a direct result of your own existence in it?
Pondering
Powerful Peace exists in its ideal as a broad, society-based agreement to serve for the general good. That’s why it’s “evolved counterterrorism”. (Terrorism depends upon grievance as its fuel – cooperation increases understanding and reduces grievance.) In the ideal, P2 is much more broad-minded than its author is in real life.
The opening question came up when I was accidentally introduced by Google to the online writings of a twenty-something in Montreal. We’ll call him “John”. I’ll be blunt: his material reminded me a lot of my own attitude at the same age. I didn’t like the reminder.
He seems an intelligent, talented…little boy. He seems to be wallowing in extreme self-interest and dissatisfaction with life. Topics include how life “sucks”, hangovers, and how screwed up the world is. If a young man with these gifts of life, wit, and energy refused to pity himself, he could do so much for those in actual need!
Technically, he’s a man. (In his case – and my own, back then – I consider this to be a designation in name only; an inevitable side effect of time’s passage on a male child’s body.) In my opinion, being a Real Man does far exceed many of the narrow assumptions we might see on the subject such as: Real Men make a lot of money, Real Men can drink a lot, Real Men treat women like doo-doo, etc. However, while the title isn’t limited to either brutes or gentlemen, I feel strongly that being a man does involve an obligation to bring some value to the world.
Is that old-fashioned, or simply a perennial truth?
Service to others satisfies a deep, real need in the human spirit. Self-service runs counter to this unseen imperative, and compounds with each decision to take, take, take…until even the urge to help one’s fellows is drowned out by the din of self-justification for taking at the expense of others. In the end, a state of genuine confusion is the reward – the young (or old) man (or woman) has been choosing to work against the current of his (or her) very own spirit’s urging.
“What is the meaning of life?” is recorded as a concern for individuals of many generations. Have you noticed that it’s not asked by those who serve? They never even perceive the question in their hearts, because it’s unconsciously answered, a step at a time, through their lives. They lack this confusion.
The good news is that this problem is an example of compleksimplicity in all its glory. There is nothing tricky about service. One tiny act (picking up a candy wrapper, or respectfully greeting a homeless man) opens a crack in the stoniest heart to try it again. (If you’re embarrassed about picking up a piece of litter at first, do it when no one’s watching.) As much as selfishness is a habit, selflessness is likewise habitualized by baby steps.
I won’t write to John, the boy whose misery I witnessed through the help of Google; he wouldn’t hear me. I know I wouldn’t have listened to an old fool like me.
What good are you?
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
23. 9/11/01 (Thank You, Mr. bin Laden)
Achilles died.
We’ll get back to that in a moment.
A few years ago, while I was still in uniform, I had what is called a “bad landing”. That’s what happens when a SEAL gets into an airplane just fine and jumps out of it just fine, but then experiences a less-than-optimal reunion with the earth.
The surgeon sliced into my throat and shoved my trachea, esophagus and artery out of the way so he could dig a damaged disk out of my spine. Earlier in the operation, he had carved a piece of bone off my left femur to fashion a disk-shaped chunk. This was now inserted as a replacement in my spine. He capped it all off by screwing a titanium plate into the vertebrae above and below the new disk, then zipped up my throat.
When the entire production was finally healed, it was exactly as the surgeon had promised: the neck was not only good as new, but stronger than before. With those two vertebrae fused into one, there is a negligible reduction of flexibility and a reinforced structure. I could take the same fall better now than with my original neck.
Achilles died.
Again, we’ll get back to that in a moment.
Osama bin Laden is no Superman. His image may now be more familiar to us than those of many of our greatest presidents. No matter. He is a living myth, blown up by the real affection of a handful of admirers and an unreal mystique to millions who are awed by the attacks accomplished in his name.
Osama bin Laden gets diarrhea. He has uncomfortable and embarrassing gassy moments, and he sometimes gets a little booger on the outside of his nostril. How do I know this? Because he’s human. When I teach “thinking like the terrorist”, I urge listeners to put our adversaries in perspective. To esteem him unrealistically is to self-inflict intimidation. It’s to give weight and energy to his cause, to the detriment of our own. They’re only guys, guys.
Osama bin Laden and al Qaeda inadvertently acted as a surgeon on the spine of the world. They cut into our throat in the hopes of finding the jugular to kill the patient.
They failed.
Before I “broke my neck a little bit”, my neck was natural and average. After the surgery I was sore for some months of healing. In the end, my spine was technically (but not noticeably) less flexible – and much better able to survive trauma similar to what had caused the original damage.
After the “operation” of 9/11, the patient (the world) was sore for a few months of healing. The patient was uncertain about the future and the prognosis for recovery. To the unacknowledged disappointment of the surviving attackers and their McQaeda franchises worldwide, the end result is the same. The attacks did not kill the patient. This operation steeled a spine.
Achilles is known for having been a great Greek warrior, invulnerable except for a small spot on his heel. During the replayed footage of today’s memorials, I heard one commentator’s original remark from that day that terrorists had found the Achilles’ heel of America. This was an inaccurate analogy.
Achilles died.
America and the world, however, are stronger than ever before.
Thank you, Mr. bin Laden.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
22. Marching into the Inferno
I’d never seen that before. Seven years after September 11th, amid all of the news coverage and local memorial services, I watched some footage today that showed dozens of firefighters who raced from nearby towns and nearby states to clamber out of their trucks in full protective suits some blocks from the disaster site of the Towers.
They clambered out of their trucks and learned that one tower had already collapsed, and that the other was likely to follow. Then they turned as one, without hesitation, and marched into the Gates of Hell to save innocent lives.
My God….
Thank you.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
16. Sez Who? (I Don’t Buy It)
In my highly-esteemed opinion [editor's note: as absurdly self-serving as the previous statement sounds, the author's claim that his opinion is highly esteemed is technically true as long as at least one person holds his opinion in high esteem - in this case there is only one person, the author himself, but this satisfies the requirement], we take too many things at face value.
Begin With Oneself
In my opinion, healthy skepticism is one of the healthiest traits we can possess – healthy for ourselves and for our societies and for our neighbor societies.
From time to time I have heard blanket statements from Recognized Authorities that burn my cookies something awful, when through personal experience I can recognize that the assertion is patently false.
[Allow me to caveat the following paragraphs: once again, I would state that the author is a recently-retired, former US commando-guy who has worked in over thirty countries and is currently pitching in with the effort in Iraq. I see some ignorance and error on each side of every conflict. My great frustration is in seeing so much "unnecessary" hostility and violence over misunderstandings. Our passion should be to pull away at the veils of ignorance about one another. Ultimately, all of this is in hopes that less children will be torn apart by war and terrorism.]
Although I am a Christian, I do not hold that status as a blank check to make smug, blanket statements. In fact, I have a special request for those of my Christian friends who may read this (I’m going to use us as an example): if you haven’t heard other faiths expressed from their faithful, please do not scatter stories of judgment like supermarket tabloids. It isn’t Christ-like.
One of my preachers, years ago, declared that before Jesus came the world had never known compassion. Unfortunately, he dug in deeper and specifically mentioned the Buddha, and how the Buddha had never taught compassion. This preacher friend of mine hadn’t studied Buddhism; he’d heard about it. I had studied Buddhism, and even practiced it years before.
In one of the earliest stories about the boy who would come to be known as the Buddha, he happened to see a worm turned up by a farmer’s spade in a field. A bird flew down and snatched up the worm to eat it. The little boy was devastated by the suffering of even so lowly a creature as this worm. He was devastated by compassion.
Another all-too-common trend among Christian teachers these days is to make sweeping statements of condemnation about Islam. Again, they haven’t actually examined the faith with interpretation from Muslims; again, I have…in at least a dozen Muslim nations.
(These same Christian teachers will insist that I consider our own holy texts in context and with interpretation – to be fair to our church. The best example of my personal struggles to comprehend scripture is the rampant genocide ordained in the Old Testament. Most specifically, it is the instruction – from God – to “dash the infants against the rocks”.)
It’s very easy to recognize that condemnation might put any group on the defensive. If it’s a general assault on Islam, some among that group will react defensively. Thus begins the escalation.
Please hear my heart, Christian brethren: I am most definitely not holier than thou. In fact, I’ve often said that if Paul called himself Chief Among Sinners, I suppose I’d have to be his Deputy Chief.
What I’m saying to Christ-followers, others-followers, and no-one-followers is that, despite our strongest ego urgings to declare final victory over what has baffled us, sometimes we’re going to have to accept a draw. If you believe in God I hope you can admit that any Creator God worth having must, by definition, be beyond the capacity of our thoughts and words to contain. In other words, not any one of us has it exactly right.
It would be hoovin’ to us to imitate Him and give a little grace to our fellows down here.
This post is not supposed to be on religion, by the way, but on assumptions and suppositions of all flavors. Gender, race, politics, finances…. I’ll declare, for the somethingth time: we need to look at ourselves and at the world through our adversary’s eyes. We might notice a plank in our own.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
13. The only easy day was yesterday
This will change not only the length of Powerful Peace postings, but also the frequency. (It’s amazing what one can learn just from scanning good blogs.) I will intend to provide more entries, more often.
It’s up to the reader to determine whether that’s a positive or a negative.
In our SEAL training, a common phrase heard was, “The only easy day was yesterday”. If you know anything about the incredible rigors of the course that turns sailors into SEALs, you understand that this phrase is an example of grim humor.
(Brief aside, here, for entertainment purposes: I called my family when I finished Hell Week, the period of five days during which we run, jump, swim, and carry heavy things around – do pretty much anything active, in fact…except sleep. Apparently I should have waited a couple of days to call. The sound of the tattered remnants of my voice - more like a death rattle – was very upsetting to those of a more sensitive nature.)
“The only easy day was yesterday” is not just funny in SEAL training, it’s true - relatively speaking. Each day we’d rise, knowing how very difficult the day before had been…and that it had in fact been easy, compared to what today would bring.
Mother Teresa
Powerful Peace is similar. As Sheri wrote in a comment after the last piece, “In my book the soft road takes A LOT more courage and strength….” I agree. Mother Teresa springs to mind. (That was a link, by the way - P2’s going high-tech.) She demonstrated unbreakable conviction to caring for people in need. She probably suffered incredible hardship over her decades of service in the stench of the trench. Her “soft road” was hard.
On the other hand, I believe that the hard road can be soft. I have witnessed very self-satisfied individuals who display no sense of caring for strangers, and who appear to possess a general disregard for others’ feelings. Life with this sense of entitlement seems to be quite comfortable, and fairly trouble-free.
As soon as I lean toward this criticism, however, I am reminded of my own tendency to judge those who differ from me. Maybe one is self-interested because he learned it and cannot know otherwise. Maybe he is bigoted and insecure because his father was bigoted and insecure. Who knows which moments, out of the millions of moments in each person’s life, carry the greatest weight and most influence his worldview?
It’s helpful to me, when I begin to indulge in self-righteous condemnation, to keep in mind the factors that might lie behind a person’s unpleasant way of behaving. For instance, I know that day is called “day” because I was taught so by people who had learned it from people before them. The same is true in prejudice. Someone may dislike white people because they were taught so by others who were taught so. Where does the chain of blame and judging end?
Jewel Kilcher
It ends at another facet of the Jewel of Powerful Peace: Accountability. Since I know that my perspective is somewhat flawed, and I know that my brother’s perspective is somewhat flawed, it benefits no one for me to try and force my belief on him. If I truly believe in my way (serving in the slums of India, for example), I simply act in that belief. Maybe my deeds, rather than my demands, will soften a hard spirit and gain an ally.
Two caveats: firstly, I know that it was blatantly self-serving to slip a photo of Jewel into a paragraph that has nothing to do with her. I can’t help it. She’s my favorite female singer, followed by Sezen Aksu.
Secondly, I should acknowledge that this was in fact not a brief post, but I would argue that the introduction about SEAL things took a lot of space.
I’ll try to do better next time.
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
10. Why I Exist
Little Girls Blown up by al Qaeda (Emad Matti, AP)
I was going to do another lighthearted jaunt through a wrapup on the first month of successes and interest shown to Powerful Peace.
Then in my terrorism research I happened upon this photo of two little girls who were blown up by al Qaeda in Iraq at a little girls’ school in Kirkuk on April 2, 2007. In other words, all my clever words don’t count when monstrous behavior is in your face.
As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. The suffering of these innocent children speaks far more eloquently than I ever can.
This is why hard power (the killing and destroying arts) is still necessary in our struggle against terrorism and human conflict in general. (Sounds hypocritical, doesn’t it?) Using the tools currently at our disposal, we have to stop the men who are doing this now. My brothers are seeing to that as we speak.
I want to suit up and rejoin the mission. I want to pay back, to the group who did this, all that they deserve – with interest. My heart doesn’t ache for these precious, precious girls. It explodes. Forcing out the tears I struggle to stop, my heart explodes like the vehicle-borne improvised explosive device that did this to them, killing their playmates.
Despite my boiling rage, I collect myself and re-assert that we also must grow our soft power even more. We must engage with all societies, especially those that, willingly or otherwise, produce terrorists. Killing alone leads to killing. This is the terrible paradox. It’s almost impossible to imagine breaking the cycle of madness when you feel so hurt and hateful. But there is no other hope for these girls and the millions like them.
If we don’t reduce the violence overall, this will happen again, and again, and again….
This is why Powerful Peace exists.
This is why I exist.
Any questions?
(By the way…the one on the left looks a bit like my little girl. You may not be able to tell in the reduced image on the blog, but her t-shirt was not originally crimson. When her mommy sent her to school, it was white, with little pink letters. She probably got a big hug and a kiss…maybe a silly tickle.)
(Although most of the blood soaking her shirt and pants is likely from a fast-flowing hidden scalp wound, you can just make out that her delicate little right hand is torn as well. She’s terrified and in terrible pain, favoring her hand to keep it from touching anything.)
(She needs desperately to be held, and appears to be reaching for someone…but she just has to sit on a ratty examining table, little gold bracelets dripping blood, and feel a million miles away from the security, love and peace she so deserves…but will never recover.)
(Try to comprehend how desperately I have to fight a descent into hate from this.)
Copyright © 2008 by Jack Oatmon. All rights reserved.
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